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The Wedding Spy

Linda reading:

I went to your son’s wedding today
in a carefully chosen outfit.
I wore the kind of dress
an aunt of the groom is supposed to wear,
but I think it was a bit too long.
I had a hat, which slipped slightly
onto my left eyebrow.
I wore brick coloured sandals with straps.

I kissed the people whose lips moved,
shook hands when a hand was extended.
I sat where I saw my name on a card
and spoke only of family connections.
‘The groom is my nephew,’
I said to the mother of the bride.
She was happy enough with that,
scanning my face for resemblance.

People talked to me, remembering you
and I remembered you too.
In fact, as they spoke, I thought I was you,
being me, in a mint cotton dress,
a straw hat and brick coloured shoes.
I wore jewellery and stayed at a proper hotel.
Anyone could reach me there
but later no one phoned.

Remember the yarmulkes,
the chuppa, the Hebrew prayers?
The rockies, the sun, the Colorado jays?
I stayed a spy as long as I could
without slipping or losing myself
in the accents and outfits forever.
You would have fitted in better.
I wish you had impersonated yourself.